


Acceptance

by redscout



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 00:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11173146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: Life without Grif after their fight with the Meta isn't everything Simmons thinks it's cracked up to be.





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> my technical 3rd angst war entry, and im sorry this one is short
> 
> prompt: "For the Angst War: Grif dies during N+1, after falling off the cliff at Sidewinder. Simmons deals with the aftermath."

He was sure it was going to be a long process, a long time to recover from grief he didn’t realize he was capable of still feeling. Simmons had had every thought about the situation worked out beforehand to its absolute, because of course he’d thought about this before. Death isn’t typically an overlying threat for them, even in the “military,” but he’s a paranoid person, he’ll admit it. Grif actually dying was a thought left to the backburner, to simmer for years and never get a second glance.

But then he was gone, just like that, and the reality of their situation hit him square in the face.

For a time, Simmons hated his own name. Hated being called or joked with or _anything_ because it only served as a cruel reminder that Grif was gone and his last word was Simmons’ name. The memory was haunting, feeling his grip slip, glancing over the side of the cliff only to see the arctic wasteland below. Above all, he hoped it was quick-- maybe he broke his neck on contact, or froze to death before the water could overtake his helmet. He didn’t dwindle on praying over it; he’d never particularly taken to his father’s religious tendencies.

The adjustment felt like an eternity to him. He’d spent god knows how many years of his life attached at the hip, Dexter Grif, his other half and then some. It was strange now, and sad. No one to turn to to tell jokes. No one to contemplate life’s mysteries with. No one to say goodnight to, a bunk over. For the first time in a long while, Simmons truly felt alone, and he was terrified.

He’d read about the five stages of grief in grade school, memorized them, internalized them. They hadn’t been relevant in his life until now, and, again, he was sure it would take forever. It was 5 stages, after all, and they lasted indefinitely depending on the situation. He’d surpassed denial and anger with surprising speed, nights spent awake, staring at the ceiling in disbelief, glancing over at the bed across the way. He was just getting a midnight snack, he’d be back. The dents in the metal wall got deeper the angrier he got afterwards, tear glands he no longer possessed keeping him from expressing his emotions any other way.

And then it was just over. He wasn’t sure if he’d even experienced the third stage before the truth was heavy on his chest, lowering his energy. Depression was the fourth stage, the one he was most familiar with. The fact that there was no service for his friend just aided the pain; a small, crudely-made wooden cross was posted in the dirt outside their red base in Valhalla. They never recovered his body, and every time Simmons passed the grave he averted his eyes, glancing far into the distance, focusing on the waterfall.

There was a day in which he willed himself out of bed with minimum effort, he showered, he ate. He smiled when Donut offered him a joke, and when he stood in _their_ usual place, his eyes didn’t jump when he saw the makeshift grave. He stared, hard, breathing in. He felt alright today. His friend was gone, but Simmons felt alright. And that’s when it hit him: He was okay with it. He’d made it to acceptance. Grif was dead, and he was fine, a week or two later.

And that’s what terrified him the most.


End file.
